Save a horse
by Monamourz
Summary: America has rewritten the lyrics to a certain song. They go something along the lines of, "Save a horse, ride Prussia." Explicit.


Alfred's alarm goes off at five in the morning and he groans, shifting over to slap it off the table and smash it against the floor. Then, with a yawn, he pushes himself up on his arms and blinks, shaking his head to try and wake himself up. When that fails, he groans again and stretches like a cat, popping his back into alliance.

Next to him, he feels Prussia shift. He can't see him, because it's too dark, but he knows that Gilbert's expression will be one of exhausted irritation and pouting. "Time 's it?" Gilbert asks, his voice tripping and cracking over the syllables because his voice is always rough in the morning.

"Five." Alfred shifts and rubs his eyes, feeling a little more awake. Prussia's hands snake from under the covers and pat blindly for America until his finds his bare torso, and he proceeds to haul himself up a little and wrap his arms around the superpower. "Gilbert," America groans, knowing what's coming next.

"Stay," Gilbert mumbles convincingly into the spot between his shoulder blades. "I'm much more awesome than a meeting with your boss." He starts nipping at America's skin.

"Nng." Alfred leans back into the German's arms and closes his eyes briefly. It would be so easy to sink into this warmth, to roll back over and…no, he can't do that, he did that yesterday which is why the meeting is so early today. "Gilbert, I can't," he says regretfully and pulls away. He hears, rather than sees, Gilbert sigh through his nose and collapse back down into his warm nest of pillows and covers.

Getting up, America stumbles across the room and into the hallway, then into the bathroom, where he is blinded when he turns the light on. He blunders into a wall, cursing and hissing and squinting, but eventually, by five thirty, when the sky is a dark gray and the outside world is visible, he's ready to leave.

Alfred puts the coffee maker on and goes back upstairs to say goodbye to Gilbert, which can be a twenty minute affair depending on how Prussia is feeling that day. This is one of his better days – after yanking America back into bed with him, and a somewhat frisky roll-around beneath the covers, Prussia slaps America's ass and says, "All right, I'm done. Go be important or some shit. I'm tired."

America pinches his earlobe as payback and then, when Gilbert yelps and flails, pins his arms and kisses him goodbye before clambering off him to leave. Gilbert gets the last word in with a well-timed bite to the wrist. "Fuck, Gilbert!" America protests, "That's not even kinky, that's just weird."

Prussia gives him an evil grin from where he is half-hidden under the covers. His red eyes are glinting and America rolls his in response before blowing him a kiss and walking out.

The day is uneventful for Prussia. He goes on a walk in the morning so Gilbird can get some fresh air, then goes home and drinks a pot of coffee. After that, he plays Alfred's electric guitar, makes a prank call to order Ludwig fifty pizzas, goes on another walk where he stalks America having lunch to make sure he isn't flirting with anyone (he isn't. He eats lunch with two decrepit old men.) Once he gets back to Alfred's house from that, he watches the news for a while to make fun of the reporters, makes three beer sno-cones and eats them all, practices his swordsmanship with Alfred's punching bag (he wins) drinks more beer, makes some wurst and eats it, and calls Ludwig to bother him for a while. It's a productive day.

Alfred gets home at four. "Hey!" he calls, nudging the door closed with his heel while loosening his oppressive tie. The house smells of beer and meat. Alfred wrinkles his nose as he walks down the main hallway. His guitar has been tossed on the couch, he notices, and there are dirty pans in the sink. Gilbert himself comes into view seconds later, snapping his cell phone shut and looking pleased to see America.

"Alfred!" Gilbert says, and he bounds over to grope America hello. This quickly turns into Gilbert wiggling his fingers under the waistband of America's slacks to ease them off. America snorts with laugher and slaps his hands away.

"Hey, stop. I've got news!"

Gilbert glares as America removes his hands from his waistband. "Oh, yeah? What is it? I'm dying to know," he says, tone implying otherwise as he tugs his hands away from America and crosses his arms.

"We're going to my Montana ranch!" America squeals.

Gilbert looks at him for a minute, blank-faced, and then raises one eyebrow. "That's so exciting I can't even believe it," he deadpans. "Now can we please get our pants off?"

"No, seriously," America plows on, "it's awesome! Boss gave me a week off because everything kind of chill right now and I haven't been there in forever, man, figured I'd check up and make sure the stable hands are still alive and stuff. And since you're staying with me for a while, you're coming with me!"

"Or I could stay here," Prussia points out, "In civilization, with good food and actual streets, not dirt roads. And no crazy backwood hicks."

"Hey." America levels him with a glare. "Seriously? Montana's one of the most gorgeous states ever! There aren't any crazy 'backwood hicks'. The food is perfectly fine. And it's a fucking ranch, of course there aren't streets."

Prussia sighs internally. Alfred gets so _touchy_ about his states. He likes it when Alfred is touchy, but not in the way he's being now.

God, that was such a lame joke. Gilbert silently resolves to do better.

Shit, wait, America is still talking, unawesomely enough. Now he's waving his hands around in the air and looking hopeful. Gilbert thinks he catches something about Prussia staying here while America leaves for a few days. _Hell_ _yes_! He can have the most epic party the nations have ever seen! "Of course!" he agrees immediately, and America grins.

"Awesome!" he trills, and throws his arms around Prussia. "You'll love it I promise it'll be super fun oh God I'm so glad you agreed!"

Gilbert gets a sinking feeling. "Wait, just run what we're doing by me again?" He asks, trying to detangle America so he can hear him.

Alfred is bouncing on the balls of his feet. "We're leaving tomorrow to go instead of the day after so we can spend a week and a day there!" Humming happily, he heads for the steps and takes them two at a time, turning around at the top to call down, "Pack some clothes! It might get hot or rainy while we're there, and sometimes the night can be cold."

So pack clothes for every season and weather condition possible, basically. "Fuck," Prussia moans, and heads upstairs to pack.

. . . . .. .. .. .. . . . . .

Later, on the plane, he stews silently in his seat next to Alfred, who is dozing.

_Since when have I gotten soft? _He wonders, glaring fiercely at the seat in front of him_. I used to be the fucking terror of the entire world! And now all one idiot nation has to do is fling his arms around me and I'm sold. God dammit. _

_And he's not an idiot. _

"Fuck it," Prussia groans, and buries his head in his hands. He used to wield a sword and rape and pillage and convert. He used to be able to send nations running when they saw the bloodlust glittering in his eyes. Now that America and he are in a…relationship…everything seems to have gone downhill.

He prods America, who cracks one eye open and gives a sleepy, "hmm?"

"Are there wild bears at your ranch?"

"I 'unno. Depends." Alfred shrugs one shoulder. "Why?"

"If there are any, can I fight them off?"

America looks confused. "Do you think I can't handle it?"

"No, I just…wanna…fight some bears."

America shoots him a quizzical look and repeats, "You want to fight some bears."

"Yes." Gilbert gives America a nonchalant look. "Bears. I'm an awesome fighter."

"I, uh. Sure?" Alfred glances at him a little uncertainly, then yawns widely and mumbles, "I'm going back to sleep," and drops his head on Gilbert's shoulder.

Gilbert starts to shrug him off (what the hell is he, a pillow? No, he is _Prussia_, motherfuckers) when Gilbird pecks him sharply from where he is perched on his head. "Hey!" Prussia hisses, flapping a hand at his bird, but Gilbird pecks him again in warning and nestles deeper into his hair. Prussia gets the message and lets Alfred's head stay on his shoulder.

Not that it's nice, but because Gilbird wants him too, and also he can be a damn good boyfriend when he wants to be.

. . . . .. .. .. .. . . . .

America's ranch is…well…Gilbert hates to be repetitive, but when he looks at it the thought that comes to mind is 'fuck.' And not as in 'we're going to be getting some good fucking in while we're on this ranch,' but 'when the fuck was the built and why am I staying here?'

America bounds toward the cabin – a tiny, one-room sort of affair – and drags Prussia with him. He shows off the cabin (it was built in like the 1800s! I built it myself!) and then he goes outside to show Prussia the barn. There are several horses in stalls, and everything is spotless, but no stablehands are about. Gilbert is confused.

"Oh, I called ahead of time and told them they had the week off!" America announces airily, when Gilbert asks him about it. "I love taking care of the animals myself. Does me good. You can help!"

Oh, _wonderful_. Still, Gilbert likes horses, so he goes to look at them. He used to have a stallion that he trained to kill people by rearing up and striking their head with its hooves. That stallion had been pretty badass. All these horses, however, seem to be a mixed bag. "What the hell kind of breed is this?" he asks.

"Oh, they're mustangs," America says with a smile. "I break 'em myself. They're the best work horses you could ask for – stamina, speed, they have it all. Pretty sweet once you tame them, too. The taming's the hard part."

"How d'you tame a mustang?" Gilbert asks. "Actually, scratch that, why would you want to? You could get a purebred that does just as much work and is much more refined and, generally, more awesome." Gilbird peeps in affirmation and Gilbert pats him.

"No no no!" America protests. Gilbert rolls his eyes and tunes America out as he begins to babble. God love him, but Alfred can just go on and on about nothing. He begins to think about beer, and maybe a nap in the shade of that huge tree. Beer and a nap, and maybe even some sex with Alfred under the stars? That sounds romantic, so Alfred will like it. And maybe they can get kinky. It's been a while since Prussia has forced Alfred into a corset and fishnets, but he brought them just in case.

He breaks from imagining how sexy America looks in high heels just in time to hear Alfred chirp, "Come and I'll show you how we do it!" Damn, he really needs to start paying attention. He is dragged across the barn by Alfred and shoved into a stall larger than the ones with horses. This one is empty, with a rope on either side to clip to halters. "We start them here," Alfred began, "to teach them that they can't fight us. We usually tie them using a non-breakaway halter and let them fight until they're exhausted. Then I come in and start just brushing 'em down. They hate that, too, and the try to start fighting, but since I'm kind of a superpower I just keep going, and if they kick a little close for comfort I catch their leg and hold it in the air for a while to teach them. Then I usually just throw a saddle on 'em, climb on up, and sit on their back. They _really_ go insane then, since their head is tied they can't throw me, and in the end we break them in!"

"That's really interesting and stuff, but we should-"

"Hey, I'll _show_ you!" Alfred is still bubbling with excitement. "Turn around."

"What? Fuck no, Alfred, I'm exhausted and my back kind of hurts from the plane and I'm getting hungry – _motherfucker_, that hurts!"

Alfred shoots him a glare. "Well then follow my lead and stop being an ass," he says, sounding irritable as he twists Gilbert around. His accent has shifted, rounding certain letters and dropping others completely. He tends to do that when he's in a certain state; adopt the accent. Gilbert finds his accent for Georgia almost horrifyingly sexy. But his Montana one is also a fairly good turn-on, and he's never heard it before. Alfred seems to realize he's listening closely to his voice and begins to speak softly, soothingly. "Just turn there. I promise. I want to show you…you'll understand _so much_ _better_ when it's done." Somehow, he's able to coax Gilbert into position, and suddenly the Prussian becomes aware that his arms are secured tightly behind his back, the rope stable and thick but not exactly painful.

"Alfred." He says, pitching his tone so that America knows he's being serious. "Let me go. Right. Fucking. _Now_."

Alfred, in response, hitches the ropes up a little higher, then a little higher, until it actually _is_ uncomfortable and Gilbert hisses through his teeth when America pulls them still _higher_. Then, when America persistently keeps tugging his bound arms up more, he rises up on his toes and arches his back to avoid the strain, trying to twist around to see Alfred. He can't, so he settles for snapping, "_Alfred_." His tone is low and dangerous. That tone sets even Spain and France on edge; it makes Ludwig shift closer to prevent blood from being spilled. It even makes Russia pause and think twice.

So why doesn't it have any effect on Alfred, other than causing the other man to give a gentle, soft laugh? "Shhh," soothes Alfred from behind him, "I'm sorry, but this is necessary. I know you're upset, but you'll calm down. They always do." His hands, warm and calloused, brush over Prussia's sides. Gilbert tries to shift away from the contact, but America follows him. "Gentle, gentle," he soothes, still in that ridiculous, soft voice.

And suddenly it occurs to Gilbert exactly what his rather demented love interest/sex buddy/boyfriend is doing. He's acting like he's a horse. A goddamn horse that needs _taming_. This revelation is punctuated by the feeling of cold steel against the small of his back. Prussia, years of intense battle training always on the surface, stiffens and tries wildly to spin to face his attacker, but the movement forces his arms up higher, and he hears Alfred loop the ropes to something, keeping his arms up to the point where Gilbert is gasping for air through the pain. "Alfred – America, what the fuck are you doing you damn fucking insane bitch fuck get – _what is that_?" He can't really struggle because he's so trussed up and it hurts, but the cold metal is moving up his back now. He tries to writhe away and ends up giving a tiny yelp which he bites off, fixing a sneer onto his face.

America gently sings a lullaby under his breath. Gilbert, trying to keep hysteria down (he hates being totally captured; America, inconsiderate bastard that he is, knows this), desperately listens for a clue and is able to hear a quiet 'snick' kind of sound.

Oh. Scissors. This realization is accompanied by his shirt falling off his body, neatly cut up the back. America, still singing that damn song, starts in on his pants. Gilbert attempts, one more time, to struggle, and hisses out his teeth when the ropes bite his skin as punishment while the muscles in his arms scream in agony. "Alfred," he manages, "this kind of hurts like being punched by a communist baby. You should let me go."

Alfred cuts his pants off instead. "Fuck, Alfred, those were my favorite pants!" Gilbert protests, as America calmly takes off both his pants and his boxers.

Finally, Alfred seems to have a reaction. He stops singing and moves around to the front where Prussia can see him. "You shouldn't be talking so much, darling," he says, voice still pitched low and slightly mellow. It's not southern, and not western…Gilbert strains to pinpoint the accent. He stops worrying about it, though, when Alfred produced a contraption from behind his back. Prussia's friends with France, and he's kinky enough to know what it is – a kind of human bridle, complete with a bit and straps to keep it attached.

"No. Oh, no. No way, _hell no_," he says empathetically, but Alfred just gives him a bright grin and moves forward. Gilbert, ignoring his aching muscles, wrenches wildly for something to prevent America from totally humiliating him. "God help me, Alfred, I don't care if you're a superpower and if we're both kinky, this is straight up humiliating. Don't you dare…hey, get away, fucki-basrahhhg!" Gilbert tries tossing his head to escape the stupid gag, but Alfred is persistent and Gilbert can't really go anywhere, and it isn't long at all before Alfred has it between his teeth and strapped to his face.

This is so _unawesome_. Gilbert spits and snarls at Alfred from being the faux bridle and rages internally. He knew this vacation was going to suck! Even worse, his body has decided it's pretty happy with the way things are going, and he can feel himself getting more and more aroused. How long has it been since he's topped? Does Alfred think he can just keep being the dominant one here?

Well, wait, so the last time they'd had sex Gilbert had pretended to be training Alfred for the revolution again, only with slightly…different… 'drills' than normal. So maybe he'd topped that one. And maybe the one before that, with the corset. But…seriously? This is so not cool!

Alfred is running his hands everywhere, now. "Calm down," he says softly, fingertips trailing down Gilbert's throat. "I can feel your pulse racing." The fingertips press down on his throat until he's struggling to breathe, then Alfred suddenly lets up and keeps stroking him, moving on to his chest. "It'll get better," he promises gently. "You'll see!"

Gilbert, huffing for breath, has no air left to snarl with rage, but he does so internally. However, his internal frothing is cut short abruptly when Alfred drags his tongue up his stomach.

Gilbert stiffens, feeling his cock jump and twitch as well. America pulls away and hums a bit, running his hands over Gilbert's torso again. "You're so defined," he admires, outlining his abdominal muscles. "And you're so pale! I'm gonna have to take you to one of my beaches." There's a pause, and then America snorts. "Nah, you'd look fucking ridiculous with a tan. Funny with a burn, though."

Gilbert mumbles indignantly…and jerks when Alfred, who has moved on to kissing up his inner thighs, bites down viciously. He reflexively snaps his leg out, trying to shake America off, and is rewarded by Alfred snagging his leg and jerking it up in the air. "C'mon, Gilbert, I told you what I did to horses who kick at me! You weren't paying attention at all, were you?" He reaches over and snags a rope, and before Prussia can think back on how America tames horses, his leg is tied parallel to the ground.

Standing is rapidly becoming more uncomfortable. He shoots Alfred a glare but doesn't move otherwise, because he's pretty sure any movement will send him crashing down in a painful fashion. Several choice curses are coming to mind, most of them inventive and in German, but those leave his head, too, when Alfred starts blowing on his length. Gilbert shivers a little and Alfred says gently, "good."

He is _so dead_ when he unbinds Gilbert.

America keeps up the feather-light touches until Gilbert groans, low and slightly angrily, and can't help the little buck his hips give. He nearly falls off balance and his arms and back protest wildly. Alfred steadies him quickly and then takes Gilbert's length into one hand, rubbing it a little before he takes it into his mouth. The stress on his body from the ropes suddenly dissolves as America keeps humming the lullaby around Prussia's cock. He lets his head fall back against his arms as he loses himself in the feeling, all his annoyance and strain fueling the pleasure until he's tense with the effort of not moving.

America stops sucking him off and Gilbert whines in his throat when he loses contact. "Stop complaining. I think you're ready for the final step!" Alfred sing-songs, and he mercifully unties Gilbert's leg, then lowers his arms. Gilbert prepares to have both his hands free (so he can throttle Alfred) but instead, before he has time to appreciate blood flowing into places it had vacated, he is shoved to the floor, arms still tied together but thrust above his head. America secures that rope using a ring on the front of the stall. He then loops ropes around Gilbert's ankles and yanks them apart, securing those as well. "Be right back," America announces, and he leaves the stall.

Gilbert is most unhappy with this development. His arousal is stiff and hot in the air, and he desperately needs contact. America is gone for a while, and Gilbert starts shifting, his arms tingling unpleasantly as blood flows back into them.

When America finally does come back, completely naked and holding something, Gilbert gives him a glare that metaphorically scorches his flesh off his bones. America laughs and holds his hands up. "Sorry, Gilbert! I had to prepare myself for the final step, you know." He crouches beside Gilbert, produces a bottle of lube from behind his back, and squirts some onto his fingers, which he then applies to Gilbert's cock. The gel is pleasantly cool and the contact sends a jolt of pleasure running through the older nation; he closes his eyes, enjoying the feeling.

They spring open when he feels America swing over his body, and he's just in time to witness Alfred impale himself completely on Gilbert's erection. A muffled shriek leaves his mouth as he is electrified, his teeth clenching down hard on the gag and his body surging up to meet Alfred's. He has just enough sanity to realize America must have stretched himself outside the stall, and then his eyes roll up when Alfred drops all the way down. Alfred rides him slowly at first, a look of concentration on his face as he adjusts, but after a few minutes they are able to establish a rhythm.

Gilbert gets closer and closer to climax, grinding his teeth to stifle his appreciative noises and choking when he can't contain himself any longer. His need is settling in the bottom of his stomach, thick and heavy, and he gets the same rush that he does from battle – the feeling that he's so heavy and yet made of nothingness, that he is raging out of control in the best of ways. He finally peaks after Alfred rolls his hips in a particularly deep-driving grinding fashion, and both come simultaneously – Alfred with a gasp of 'Prussia' and Gilbert with a stifled scream. America stays sitting for a moment, Gilbert still inside him, gasping in the afterglow. Then he carefully stands, looking a little stiff and uncomfortable, and unbinds Gilbert's feet and hands, then removes the gag.

Yanking his limbs to him, Prussia begins massaging feeling back into them, unable to muster the energy to get off the floor, even though it's somewhat disgusting and unclean. America leaves again, and comes back with clothes on and carrying a wet rag and a pile of what appear to be extra clothes. Gilbert sits up and accepts the rag, wiping sweat and body fluid off his stomach. His wrists and ankles are beginning to turn red, the places where the rope bit swelling angrily. Still, he buzzes all over from afterglow, and the twinges of pain only add to the feeling.

"Well," America says, accepting the rag back with a wrinkle of his nose and handing off the pile of clothes, "What'd you think?"

"Man, fuck you," Gilbert says, standing a little shakily and sliding the shirt over his head.

America grins. "I just did."

"Shut up," Gilbert snaps. "That was…" he stops to reflect.

Alfred looks apprehensive. "Bad? Mediocre? Sorry if it came off as weird, I kind of got in the zone and-"

"Totally fucking hot," Gilbert finishes with an eye roll. "Hate to admit it, but it was."

"Really?" Alfred bounces on his toes and looks thrilled as he starts looping the rope back up. "I know you hate total bondage, but I thought this wasn't too bad and I knew you were really irritated with the fact that you came out here so I tried to make it up to you!"

"The bridle kind of enraged me, but what the hell, it actually turned out kinda hot."

Alfred throws his arms around Gilbert and gives him an enthusiastic hug. "Yay yay yay! I was so afraid you wouldn't like it! And anyway, to make up for it, I've got a compromise."

"Oh, yeah?" Gilbert slides the stall door open and steps out; Alfred follows with the gag, bottle of lube, and dirty rag, which he puts away. They walk outside and collapse under the shade of the tree Gilbert was thinking about earlier, America using Gilbert's chest as a pillow. "What's that?"

"I figured you get one free pass to do anything you want to me without me complaining or resisting," Alfred grins at him.

Gilbert thinks of the corset he brought. Then he thinks of the matching high heels, garters and fishnets, and bow he _also_ brought, and he smirks. "Yeah, that seems fair."

/ Hum de dum. I love this pairing. This and Romerica are my addiction. Not enough people pair them together, which is sad.

This was mostly just to fulfill my love of kinky!Alfred. I'm terrible at sex scenes. I know. I'm sorry. *weeps*

And hey, I'm gonna be honest. I don't really take fanfiction seriously enough to look things up for it. So if I got information on Montana wrong, I'm terribly sorry, but I could care less. This fic was just to make me happy. Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. About accuracy, that is.

Hope you enjoyed it! :D Review!


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